


Event Horizon

by Buttros



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John Watson, BDSM, Case Fic, Fluff, It's For a Case, M/M, Porn With Plot, Smut, Sweet, but they get there in the end, they're both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23280604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttros/pseuds/Buttros
Summary: Sherlock and John's meeting with The Woman (i.e. Irene Adler, a dominatrix) changed their dynamic in a both subtle and drastic manner. Now, with a BDSM serial killer on the loose, some truths that John Watson would have rather remained hidden, are out in the open.Could their friendship survive it?More importantly, could John?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 177





	Event Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> ______*______

It’d been quiet – dreadfully so – for over a month. 

The last time that Sherlock Holmes had felt the excitement of a case, ‘the thrill and mystery of a chase’, had been over the Irene Adler fiasco. John doesn’t think ‘fiasco’ is strong enough to convey the horrid situation. Or the uncomfortable over-analysing stares that he’d been receiving from Sherlock ever since. 

_And there’s another one_ , John thought, idly, and focused more intently on the telly. The feeling of Sherlock’s eyes burning through his skin. 

‘‘0-4-2-5’’ Sherlock said, and John watched though the corner of his eyes as the detective raised his chin defiantly. 

‘‘No, Sherlock’’ He sighed, rubbing his face ‘‘Irene’s password wasn’t my birthday. Why would it be?’’ He looked at Sherlock, who had already turned his attention back to his microscope. He was dressed today, for a change, which John considered a blessing. The sheets were going to be the death of him and Mrs. Hudson (though for different reasons). ‘‘I could just tell you the pas-’’ 

‘‘No’’ 

John bit his lip at the interruption. Of course, Sherlock would want to turn this into a game. It wasn’t every day that John knew something that he didn’t. He sighed, again, ‘‘Alright’’, and he surfed through the channels. 

He didn’t have anything to do but wait for his night shift at the A&E. He settled for a documentary on black holes and shifted lower on the sofa, casting one last glance at Sherlock before closing his eyes. 

The whole thing was absurd, and, despite what might have been expected, John didn’t feel smug about guessing Irene’s password before Sherlock. This disruption of their dynamic was bleeding into other aspects of their lives. Sherlock had been actually doing what he was being told, cleaning when John told him to, storing his samples properly and away from food. It freaked John out so much that he’d stop asking for things altogether. 

‘‘H-W-A-T'’ 

Sigh, ‘‘Not my dog tags either’’ 

Sherlock grunted in response, and John massaged his forehead just as the Steven Fry sounding guy explained what was an event horizon and their singularity. 

_Sherlock is just as singular_ , John thought, already a bit sleepy. _Inescapable_. 

‘‘Don’t’’ Sherlock murmured. 

John opened his eyes, ‘‘Don’t what?’’ 

‘‘Don’t sleep. Lestrade will be calling shortly’’ 

John sat up, looking over at Sherlock, ‘‘How do you know that?’’ 

He raised an eyebrow, ‘‘I’m surprised you don’t know already’’ 

John rolled his eyes, getting up and patting his hair down, ‘‘I didn’t guess Irene’s password because I’m suddenly a genius, you know, I was just-’’ 

‘‘You didn’t guess’’ 

John waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, ‘‘What?’’ 

‘‘You didn’t guess. You knew. She asked me to decode the numbers on her phone, which I did, but before I could say it you took the phone from my hand, insulted her and called Mycroft’’ Sherlock had gotten up from his chair, and was standing right in front of John, looking down at him, which he knew John hated. ‘‘You knew she was in cahoots with Moriarty. You knew she was playing me’’ He bent down a little further, and John felt his exhale on the tip of his nose, ‘‘You. Didn’t. Guess’’ 

John set his jaw. He realized, maniacally, that there were four different shades of blue on Sherlock’s iris, and he was just as beautiful up close. And it’s really inconvenient to find the person that you’re supposed to be mad at so beautiful. ‘‘Fine’’ he said, ‘‘I didn’t guess. I knew. And since you don’t want me to tell you how I knew or what the password is, I honestly don’t know what you want from me. Or what you can possibly gain from being such an arse’’ 

Sherlock raised his chin, somehow making him seem taller, and John hated that with a fucking passion, ‘‘Perhaps you are using my methods, finally’’ 

‘‘Perhaps the methods are rubbish without the experience’’ 

Sherlock snorted, ‘‘What experience could _you_ possibly have’’ 

‘‘Sherlock Holmes’’ John’s voice lowered several notes, the captain in him finally having enough, ‘‘You are insensitive, at times. But never cruel’’ He took a step back, looking at Sherlock up and down, ‘‘Cruelty doesn’t suit you’’ 

Sherlock swallowed visibly, and had the grace to look a bit sheepish and apologetic. There was a knock on the front door, which Mrs. Hudson answered, but John’s eyes never left Sherlock’s. 

‘‘What do we say?’’ John murmured. 

‘‘Sorry’’ Sherlock looked down. 

‘‘Good’’ John suppressed the ‘boy’ at the last second. _Christ, get it together, Watson_. Lestrade was climbing up the stairs, two at a time. ‘‘Do. Not. Tower over me again. You know I don’t like it’’ 

Sherlock’s response was overrun by a gasping Detective Inspector. Who seemed to notice he wasn’t exactly welcome, ‘‘Everything alright?’’ He said, and John finally turned to look at him with a stiff smile. 

‘‘All good’’ he moved to get his coat, ‘‘Case, yeah?’’ 

‘‘Yeah’’ But he was looking at Sherlock, ‘‘Coming, then? I’m sort off the end of the rope here’’ 

‘‘Yes’’ Sherlock murmured, then ‘‘Yes! Serial killer, yes? Victims all in their mid-twenties, though they look younger. Five, correct?’’ He put on his coat and was already moving down the stairs. 

Lestrade wasn’t even surprised that Sherlock already knew. ‘‘We’re thinking eight, actually. Some off them weren’t released to the press’’ 

‘‘Right, of course, yes!’’ He ran along in front of them. 

‘‘He seems... weirder than usual’’ Lestrade murmurs to John as they descend at a normal rate. 

John only grunts in response. 

_*_ 

Crime scenes are never easy, but the victims of serial killers are somehow harder to look at. There is an emotional detachment more obvious in their bruises. The way that their bodies are placed and arranged in the last moments of their lives, like they ceased to be human. Serial killers don’t even have the dignity to hate their victims. 

This one, incidentally, is a girl. She looks, from what is visible of her face, not even twenty. The killer had placed her kneeling, sitting on her bare feet, chest to her thighs and forehead to the floor. White shirt and blue jeans impeccable. Blond hair tied neatly in a bun. She couldn’t have been dead for more than a day. 

Sherlock was circling around her around her, those vibrant eyes taking everything in, when he suddenly stopped. ‘‘Doctor’’ 

John raised his eyebrows, looking at Lestrade for permission before knelling down beside the girl. ‘‘No obvious signs of trauma’’ He looked at a forensics person lurking nearby and extended his hand, silently asking for a glove, ‘‘Ta, mate’’. He felt for lumps around her neck and arms, ‘‘I would guess’’ he glanced at Sherlock, ‘‘that she wasn’t killed here. She was asphyxiated somewhere else’’ 

‘‘Asphyxiated?’’ Sherlock knelt beside John, as if trying to see what he was seeing, ‘‘There are no strangulation marks on her neck, doctor’’ 

‘‘There are other ways to asphyxiate people. Especially if you don’t want to leave obvious marks. And especially if you are playing’’ 

‘‘Playing?’’ This time it was Lestrade that was confused. 

John was horrified at the blush forming on his face, and he struggled to rephrase, ‘‘This is just a guess, of course’’ He kept his eyes resolutely on Lestrade ‘‘But I think that she was practicing... BDSM’’ 

Lestrade raised his eyebrows, and John regretted being alive. 

‘‘There are a few faint bruises on her arms and cheeks. Giving the patterns, I would say that her partner used the Hammerlock to bondage her arms’’ John’s face was burning uncomfortably, ‘‘And asphyxiated her by closing her mouth and nose’’ He demonstrated on himself, wanting to die, ‘‘Of course, it’s probably all wrong’’ he coughed out a laugh, finally looking at Sherlock. 

Said detective was looking at John intently. ‘‘You’re right’’ he murmured, simply. He got up and made his way quickly out the storage house where they were. 

‘‘Wait, anything else? You know, that might actually help us?’’ Lestrade looked exhausted. 

‘‘You can send the files of the past victims, but we have some sort of idea that the killer practises BDSM, and choses submissive victims. Aren’t there clubs for this sort of thing? You can start there’’ Sherlock was already out the door, ‘‘Come on, John’’ 

John shook his head and waived pathetically at Lestrade, jogging to keep up with Sherlock. 

_Event Horizon_ , John thought, looking at Sherlock as he hailed a cab, _meet your singularity_. 

The cab ride was quiet, just the way John hated. He wasn’t one to dwell on thoughts and feelings, particularly shame. Rationally, he knew that he had nothing to be ashamed off. He couldn’t, however, help but feel like he revealed too much. Sherlock knowing bondage positions and BDSM practises was one thing. He was a detective, curious about most things unusual, things that could help him solve cases. John knowing BDSM, however, was a completely different matter. 

‘‘Out with it’’ John said, his tone harsher than he intended, and Sherlock turned to look at him, innocence laced with smugness on his features. 

‘‘Whatever do you mean?’’ 

‘‘Just’’ John sighed, closing his eyes and bumping his head on the seat, ‘‘Deduce away, would you? Get it over with so I can move on with my life’’ 

‘‘Is that an order, master?’’ 

John’s eyebrows raised on their own accord. He looked at Sherlock more fully, something hot settling on his belly that was only partially discomfort. ‘‘Careful’’ 

‘‘Why?’’ Sherlock came closer, his lips dangerously close to John’s ear, ‘‘Are you going to punish me?’’ 

John set his jaw. Why was getting mocked by Sherlock somehow a hundred times worse than almost dying in the desert? He had to go for the kill. ‘‘This is how, while Irene Adler was manipulating you as easily as taking candy from a child, I saw right through her’’ 

The cab had stopped, and John left Sherlock to pay for it. He had just enough presence of mind to see a hurt expression on Sherlock’s face. He went for his room quickly, and decided the patients at A&E needed him five hours earlier. 

_*_ 

It wasn’t that John was avoiding Sherlock. Not at all, in fact. Deciding to sleep at the hospital was strategic, you see. Too many shifts and not enough time to be on the bus. 

It took a desperate message from Lestrade for John to finally remove his head from his arse and go to Scotland Yard to tame an insulting and verging on maniac version of Detective Sherlock Holmes. 

‘‘John, yes, good. Perfect. You’re here. I need. I need-’’ Said detective was pacing around Lestrade’s office, glancing at John with the same focus that he glanced at the crime photos displayed on the desk. His big wide eyes the only crack on the indifference mask that he usually put on. 

‘‘What do you need?’’ John’s voice was gentle without him even having a say on the matter. He’d almost added a ‘love’ at the end of his sentence, for Christ's sake. He wasn’t used to seeing Sherlock this... distraught. He knew he felt that way, sometimes, but Sherlock had never allowed anyone to actually see it. It was equal parts fascinating and disconcerting. 

Sherlock came closer to him, eyes looking everywhere but at John’s. ‘‘You’re not leaving, are you?’’. And his tone was so small and vulnerable that John felt his heart being squeezed impossibly tight. Had he known Sherlock would be this upset, he wouldn’t have kept himself away. 

_Wouldn’t you?_ A small part in his brain pondered. 

‘‘No, I’m not, love’’ This time he let it slip. He couldn’t not. Not with the way Sherlock looked. ‘‘I was just... taking a breather. Being an arse. You pick’’ he offered Sherlock a smile, which he returned, before the detective moved away to continue to look (less franticly) at the photos. 

John turned to Lestrade, who had both his eyebrows raised and a hand covering his mouth. John nodded, agreeing. He didn’t really know to what he was agreeing, but he agreed anyway. Lestrade composed himself, and nodded back. 

‘‘This is pointless’’ Sherlock almost yelled, startling both John and Lestrade alike. He pulled John by the hand, closer to the photos, ‘‘I need you’’ 

‘‘Okay’’ John ignored the small rush along his spine at hearing the words. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand before letting go. ‘‘Let’s take a look at these, then, shall we?’’ 

Sherlock nodded vigorously, but his eyes remained on John. 

The doctor cleared his throat. 

Honestly, the photos didn’t provide any more clarity than what he had surmised on the crime scene. All eight victims had signs of having practiced one type or another of bondage, of being asphyxiated, of having been a part of a BDSM scene. John looked at Sherlock again, already shaking his head apologetically. 

Sherlock’s jaw set, and he grabbed John’s hand again, ‘‘We’re leaving’’ he announced, and moved quickly enough that John couldn’t hear a reply from the detective inspector, only partially registering the surprised look on the officers’ faces as they passed their desks on the way out. 

‘‘Alright, alright. That arm is attached to a person, you know’’ 

‘‘Of course, I know. A John person. My John’’ John wondered if Sherlock was even aware of what he was saying at this point. 

‘‘Have you figured out, then? Who the killer is? Is that where we’re going?’’ 

Sherlock hailed a cab, his grip on John even harder, somehow. ‘‘No. Not enough data. Not enough... enough experience to reach a conclusion’’ 

‘‘Right’’ John said, placing his hand on Sherlock’s wrist to try and soothe him. A cab pulled in front of them, and just as John was about to enter, Sherlock stopped in front of him. 

‘‘I need experience’’ he said. Whispered, even. Possibly begged. 

John blushed, frowning, ‘‘Okay’’ 

Sherlock’s face lit up at the word. He nodded, ‘‘Brilliant’’ and turned to enter the cab. 

John was left wondering what the hell just happened. 

_*_ 

The tone around 221 B was eerie, somehow mystical. The kind of atmosphere apt for life-changing choices to be made. 

Sherlock didn’t say a thing as he removed his shoes, made his way to the front of John’s chair, and knelt down, sitting on his bare feet. His head bowed low, his palms on his thighs. 

The air stopped working properly. It turned solid on John’s throat. 

‘‘Sherlock’’ John whispered, and it was a question. 

‘‘John’’ Sherlock said. A purposeful and calm sound. The answer. 

If John was a smart man, he might have seen it sooner. His visceral reaction to how shamelessly Irene Adler wanted to own Sherlock Holmes. How angry he was when she drugged the detective. How jealous he was from seeing Sherlock mourning her. And then, that final day, when he was barely aware of what he was saying, he just wanted nothing more than to erase the imprint of her lips on Sherlock’s cheek. 

‘‘ _Impress me_ ’’ she had said, bending down to kiss him. The whole memory was saturated into a bright red. 

John had stated his claim. The three of them were nothing more than animals at that point. Seeing the fear and respect in Irene's eyes was glorious. Seeing aw in Sherlock’s was the only victory he understood. 

And as much as he wanted to argue otherwise, he has ever since seen Sherlock as his. 

And Sherlock knew that too. 

He decided to stake his claim, too. 

_‘‘Are you going to punish me?’’_ Sherlock had asked. And John had. He had been hurting him. Keeping himself away. Only offering comfort when the detective admitted he needed him. When Sherlock was willing to beg for it. 

‘‘Christ’’ John said, out loud, moving to take a seat on his chair. Careful not to touch Sherlock’s vulnerable form. Confusion and arousal making it hard to breathe. 

John swallowed around a dry throat, trying to gauge any fear or discomfort on Sherlock’s face. The detective was, quite on the contrary, curious. Almost eager, it would seem. Perhaps a bit nervous, agitated. The kind of expression he gets when he is close to finding the answer. When his mind is working over a thousand kilometres per hour. 

Knowing that he had the detective’s full attention calmed John down a bit. If only a bit. ‘‘What are you doing?’’ John said, and he was surprised at how calm he sounded. 

‘‘This will allow us to be in the place of the killer and the victims. The dominant’’ he pointed at John, ‘‘and the submissive’’, he pointed at himself. It sounded rehearsed, ‘‘You... It’s what you like’’ His eyes glanced at John’s crotch, smugness oozing out of him, but there was something else there. Some other emotion there that John couldn’t quite figure out. Something off. 

John pulled Sherlock’s chin up, gently, and that emotion flourished on his face. He was nervous, fearful, insecure... and then Sherlock mastered his features back to smugness. 

‘‘S-H-E-R'’ He said, smirking. ‘‘You knew because you’re a dominant too’’ 

John inhaled deeply, raising his eyebrows, but shaking his head slightly. The innocent explanation surprised him. ‘‘I knew because she was too proudful not to give into the temptation of putting the only password that she though would escape you. Because she thought that you could never understand sentiment. Or feel it’’ 

Sherlock frowned, raising his chin proudly ‘‘I can’t... I’’, his mouth opened and shut, as if it couldn’t comprehend Sherlock saying that he didn’t know something. He finally set on an expression that was nearly cruel, predatory, ‘‘You haven’t denied what you are’’ 

John rolled his eyes, ‘‘What to do want from me, Sherlock, since you clearly know everything?’’ 

Sherlock stared at him, agape. He tried to look down at his kneeling form, John’s hand on his chin stopping him ‘‘If you can’t tell what I want then you are clearly impaired, John’’ 

John saw red, his grip tightening ‘‘And you think bullying me into it is the way to do it?’’ 

Sherlock sighed and had the audacity to look at the celling, as if asking God himself for patience. ‘‘You like submissive people. I want the experience. I don’t know what the big deal is’’ 

‘‘You think I want to fuck you’’ 

Sherlock looked taken a bit aback by his bluntness. Insecurity flourished on his face again. He cleared his throat, ‘‘You-’’ 

‘‘But you, of course, are above such things’’ 

Sherlock blinked a few times, finally inhaling deeply and raising his chin further, ‘‘Yes’’ 

John sat back on his chair, watching him, releasing him. ‘‘You want to know what it is like to submit to a person, so you can understand what the victims felt?’’ 

Sherlock frowned, ‘‘As I’ve already said, yes’’ 

John sighed, uncomfortably aware of how much this situation was affecting him, ‘‘I can’t subjugate you’’ 

‘‘Why not?’’ Sherlock honest to God pouted a little. Put upon because John was refusing to fuck him. _Dear God._

‘‘You like to push me into a breaking point. Misbehave. _Always_. And I would hazard a guess that the victims, on the other hand, liked to please, to be good, and were genuinely upset if they did something wrong’’ John shrugged, ‘‘I know that that’s not you’’ 

Sherlock looked down, and if John weren’t losing his mind, he would say that the detective looked upset, ‘‘Is that what you prefer, then, in your choice of partners?’’ 

John shook his head, debating his options. Honesty or evasion? ‘‘I prefer someone who likes me’’ Honesty it is, then. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, ‘‘I like you’’ 

John raised his eyebrows, mock-surprised. ‘‘Isn’t sentiment a crack in the lens?’’ 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but blushed a little, ‘‘Sociopaths can still like people’’ 

John didn’t think they could, but he didn’t say anything. What was Sherlock trying to convince him of, exactly? That he could pretend to be his submissive to solve the case? What the hell was even going on? ‘‘I think maybe you’re confusing affection with trust’’, he said, because as much as Sherlock claimed to like him, it still couldn’t be classified as the same as what John felt for him. Someone else held that spot. 

Sherlock swallowed visibly and shook his head. 

John ignored the acid rising in his throat as he murmured, ‘‘I think you like Irene Adler’’ 

This time Sherlock frowned, ‘‘What does she have to do with anything?’’ 

John shrugged, trying to ease his discomfort _(read jealousy)_ , ‘‘You respect her. You care for her... Maybe even love her’’ 

Sherlock looked scandalized. ‘‘I respect her as an adversary. Someone who bested me. I certainly don’t trust or like her. Much less feel any sort of attraction towards her. Sexual or otherwise’’ 

John took a deep breath, pondering his options. He could insist on it, remind Sherlock of how distraught he was when he thought she was dead, how he composed only sad music and didn’t eat. How he found nothing worthy of his time or attention. Sherlock would be upset that he is persisting this, and would surely give up this ludicrous idea of playing with ( _submitting to? Fucking?_ ) John. 

On the other hand, John could give in and do it. Have him. _Finally._

He shook his head, ‘‘I don’t know why you are so reticent on being alone and miserable’’ 

Sherlock stared at him incredulously, literally taken aback, ‘‘You are unbelievable’’ 

‘‘Oh, _I_ am unbelievable?’’ 

‘‘Yes. You are incredibly smart and full of intuition for some things and dim for others’’ 

‘‘Like every other God dammed person in the planet. You, on the other hand-’’ 

‘‘Want you to show me a scene’’ 

John took a moment to shake his head, ‘‘It won’t help you with the case, so fucking why?’’ 

Sherlock scoffed, but his face turned very red, very quickly, ‘‘It _will_ help with the case. You don’t understand the method enough to comprehend my reasons’’ 

John sighed, ‘‘I don’t want to do this for an experiment’’ He tried to sound resolute and managed only just. 

‘‘How is it any worse than the other reasons why you choose to have sex?’’ Sherlock sounded petulant, genuinely curious. John wanted, rather insanely, to smooch his cheeks together and kiss his pouting mouth. 

Sherlock must have seen some fondness on John’s face, because he turned his head, analysing, still kneeling, but rising from his seating position to come closer, between John’s legs. 

John became acutely aware of Sherlock’s hands on his knees, pushing his legs further apart. Their friendship had reached a breaking point, a metamorphosis. No longer could it be contained in its fragile cocoon. John showed too much, and Sherlock wanted it. Even if just to satisfy his own curiosity, but he wanted it. 

John was past pretending, it would seem. His entire body was betraying him. 

It was already happening. His need to have Sherlock overwriting every last ounce of rationality from his mind. Sherlock was really smart to do this kneeling down, John thought. No way John could resist him. 

‘‘You have an answer for everything, don’t you?’’ 

Sherlock smiled, relieved at John’s lighter tone, ‘‘I do’’ 

John shook his head, feeling like he had descended into madness, ‘‘Alright’’ 

Sherlock’s eyes widened in such glee that John had to bit his lip not to smile, ‘‘Alright?’’ 

‘‘Yes’’ he answered, pretending to sound put upon. What was he doing, anyway? Trying not to have casual sex with the most attractive man he knew, like a fucking maniac? Did he even have a good enough reason not to? 

_Yes_ , the back of his mind answered. He ignored it. 

Sherlock sat down back on his feet, looking down, but still smiling lightly. 

‘‘We need to talk about it, first’’ 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, ‘‘God, why?’’ 

‘‘Because I need to know what you want and don’t want’’ 

Sherlock’s chin nearly touched his own chest, ‘‘It’s not like I have any point of reference’’ 

John’s mouth closed shut. That answered that question, then. 

‘‘Alright’’ He took a deep breath, ‘‘How about I-’’ another deep breath, ‘‘Alright’’ 

Sherlock shook his head, eyes filled with mirth, but there was a deep blush on his cheeks. 

Settling into this role was as easy as being a doctor. As easy as being a soldier. As easy as being in love with Sherlock Holmes. His voice didn’t waiver, ‘‘I’ll have to touch you, is that alright?’’ 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, ‘‘Obviously’’ 

John considered his attitude problem, ‘‘Maybe spank you’’ 

Sherlock finally subsided, the smile gone from his face, ‘‘Okay’’, and his pupils blew a little wider. _Good fucking God._

‘‘You look like you read about this’’ John looked at his position, ‘‘Any questions for me?’’ 

Sherlock blinked a few times, staying quiet for over half a minute, as if re-reading every BDSM article in his mind. ‘‘Will you...’’ his voice sounded small, timid, ‘‘Kiss me?’’ 

John’s heart squeezed tight. He wanted nothing more than to care for and spoil this beautiful man. ‘‘Would you like me to?’’ 

Sherlock blinked some more, then nodded. 

John nodded back, ‘‘Okay’’ he smiled, raising his hand to trace Sherlock’s fingers, lightly, ‘‘If you are a good boy, I’ll kiss you’’ 

_Those pupils again, Christ._ John moved his fingers to take Sherlock’s pulse, and wasn’t surprised to find it elevated. Those were, certainly, things that Sherlock couldn’t control. Couldn’t make his pupils dilate and his pulse elevate just to play the part. Just to pretend to want John. _Could he?_ John wished he had enough brain capacity at the moment to know what the rational, adult thing to do is. 

_Not this, Watson. Something is off._ The back of his mind again. He ignored it. 

As it were, the idea of playing with Sherlock was too enticing to focus on anything else. 

‘‘Go make us some tea’’ 

Sherlock was startled by his question. Or, perhaps, he was startled by John’s change of tone, from a friend to a captain. He blinked a few times, opening his mouth to (probably) argue. 

‘‘I said’’ John moved closer to him, his nose nearly brushing against Sherlock’s cheek, ‘‘Go make us some tea, pup’’ 

Understanding drew on Sherlock’s face, ‘‘Yes, sir’’, but he didn’t move to get up, turning his face as if expecting a kiss. _I’m dead_ , John thought, _this is it_. 

‘‘You can call me John, love’’ he let his tone slip to something gentler, but denied giving Sherlock what he wanted, moving back to rest his back on the chair again. He picked up the book that he kept just within reach, on his coffee table. 

As if he could read a single word. Might as well have been Greek, written on the pages. Sherlock moved to the kitchen, though the kitchen, and John somehow felt in his bones the sound of his trousers as he walked, of his shirt as he placed teacups and biscuits on a plate. Time was moving in slow motion inside their walls. The air was hot like a star’s collapsing core. 

Sherlock placed the tea tray on John’s table, kneeling between his legs again. From the corner of his eyes, John thought he could see the detective’s body vibrating. 

He moved to take a sip from his tea, but Sherlock gently stilled his hand. ‘‘It’s hot, John’’ He moved closer, ‘‘Here’’ and blew on the rim, between their fingers. 

Why was that the most erotic thing that had ever happened to John Watson? 

He couldn’t trust his voice. Or his hands, for that matter. He placed the teacup not too carefully on the tray again and caught Sherlock’s chin in one hand, brushing his thumb across those lips. ‘‘You worry about me, beautiful?’’ 

‘‘Always, John’’ 

John moaned - he honest to God moaned – at how gentle Sherlock sounded. How truthful. How vulnerable. He moved his hand across Sherlock’s face, into his hair, and started scrubbing, petting, massaging the scalp. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed, a blissful expression on his face, and he bent his head down. 

‘‘Lay here, pup’’ John said, guiding his head. Sherlock went immediately, willingly. He braced his arms on John’s thighs, hands holding on to his hips. A tiny moan escaped him as John’s nails dug into a particular spot behind his ear. ‘‘That’s right, love. You’re so beautiful. I bet you don’t even know how beautiful you are’’ 

Sherlock moaned louder, and John abandoned any pretence of surviving this. 

‘‘I want to take care of you, love. Every day. Make you feel special and cherished and cared for’’ John bent over to kiss his head, ‘‘Would you like that? 

Sherlock nodded awkwardly, his face brushing up and down John’s thigh, and John accidently tugged his hair a little at how good it felt. Sherlock must have noticed his effect on John, because he did it again, more purposefully this time, right over John’s crotch. 

‘‘No, love’’ John tugged his hair one more time, reprimanding him ‘‘None of that’’ 

‘‘But’’ Sherlock raised his head, eyes meeting John’s then moving down again, ‘‘I want to please you’’ 

John’s mouth went dry. Were his jeans always this tight? 

At John’s lack of words Sherlock went down again, hot breath against John’s erection, mouthing along its line. John chocked back a moan. 

‘‘You are, love’’ John whispered, tugging on Sherlock’s hair again to push his head away, ‘‘You do. But I don’t want that right now’’ 

Sherlock looked breathtakingly beautiful - confused, eager, caring and excited. He looked like absolute capitulation. His mask of indifference completely abandoned. How people could believe that this man was a sociopath, John didn’t know. 

_John Watson, you are a fucking idiot._

‘‘Can you go to my room, beautiful? Can you lie on my bed and wait there for me?’’ 

Sherlock took a deep breath, and nodded, rising stiffly from his knees, his trousers doing nothing to hide his own erection. Especially when he, bashful, put his hands in front of it and ran to John’s room before either one of them could comment on it. 

John took a moment to calm down his breathing. 

What the hell was he doing? Was John supposed to ignore the vulnerability behind Sherlock’s eyes, pretend it’s all just an act? Why would Sherlock even be so vulnerable? Was it just a question of virginity or- 

And then, just like with Irene Adler and the phone, John had an epiphany. 

This story about needing John’s help for experience was rubbish from the start. John knew this, of course, but didn’t know the right reason behind it. He thought that this was perhaps reminiscent of The Woman, that Sherlock wanted to learn how to submit to please her, but now John knew that that couldn’t be the case. The emotion and desperation behind his eyes, his actions, was reserved for someone else. And, if he deduced this correctly, this someone had been holding Sherlock’s heart prisoner for quite a while. 

John made his way to his room two steps at a time. 

Sherlock Holmes was lying on the middle of the bed, hands braced on his chest. The blue shades were drawn, making Sherlock look ethereal. An angel. 

‘‘Did I tell you to strip?’’ John said, staring at Sherlock’s purple pants, the contrast between it and Sherlock’s beautiful skin. He moved closer to Sherlock letting his eyes wander, ‘‘I want to lick every inch of you’’ 

Sherlock moaned, biting his lower lip and frowning, ‘‘You really do’’ he said, sounding awed. 

John laughed, ‘‘I think we both have made deductions, haven’t we?’’ 

Sherlock nodded, extending his arms to John, beckoning him in, and John went. ‘‘You want to have a BDSM relationship with me’’ Sherlock said, but his deduction voice lacked its usual bravado. It was softer, higher. Absolutely lovely. He laced his legs around John’s waist, tugging him further down. John couldn’t not smile at Sherlock’s choice of words, everything he did was endearing. 

John’s lips came very close to Sherlock’s, ‘‘You though that you could use the case as an excuse to have sex with me, and that I wouldn’t realise that you _actually_ wanted to have sex with me’’ 

Sherlock looked a bit sheepish, ‘‘It was a good plan’’ 

‘‘It was a terrible plan. Either that or I’m a genius’’ 

‘‘We’ve established that you’re a genius now, John. Do keep up’’ Sherlock smiled. 

‘‘Right, yes, of course’’ John laughed. 

Sherlock turned his head to the side, like a puppy, ‘‘You were jealous of Irene Adler’’ 

John shrugged, ‘‘You were composing sad music for me’’ 

Sherlock shook his head, but smiled, ‘‘You want to kiss me’’ 

John laughed, hiding his face on Sherlock’s neck. ‘‘I do’’ he kissed the skin beneath his lips, because it was begging him to. ‘‘Christ, I do’’. He nibbled Sherlock’s neck with his teeth and sucked a mark on it. Sherlock answered by burying his fingers in John’s hair and moaning. 

John grinded down, pulling both of Sherlock’s knees up and pushing them on the bed, sucking another mark on that gorgeous neck. ‘‘That’s right, beautiful. Let me hear you’’ 

‘‘John’’, he said, and it was barely a word. It was an inhale. A hiccup. 

‘‘I’ve wanted you for so long, too’’ John kept a rhythm to his grinding, aware of the pressure he was placing on Sherlock’s legs, moving down to suck and bite on a nipple. 

‘‘How- How lon-’’ Sherlock was nearly completely out of it, John noted with pride. The words sounded pained and desperate. 

‘‘How long have I known you?’’ He murmured, moving to another nipple, ‘‘Like thirteen years?’’ 

Sherlock laughed and moaned at the same time, ‘‘Eighteen months, John’’ 

‘‘Too bloody long to want someone and not have them, if you ask me’’ John moved further down, easing his weigh from Sherlocks knees and into the bed. He dipped his tongue inside Sherlock’s belly button. 

‘‘Oh’’ he said, and seemed to remember that his hands were still in John’s head, because he began to tug on it. 

John rubbed his face against Sherlock’s clothed erection, mouthing along the line, tipping his tongue into the wet stop right at the front. He got lost on it, completely out of his mind with how arousing just the thought of having Sherlock like this was. Amazed that he could do this. He started to tug on the hem of those ridiculous purple pants, but stopped when he heard a different edge on Sherlock’s moans, felt more force to his tugs. 

‘‘Love?’’ John moved from between his legs, finally looking at the distraught expression on Sherlock’s face, ‘‘Oh, God. Did I hurt you? Was that... that was-’’ 

‘‘I just-’’ Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing deeply. ‘‘Just. Too much. I’m sorry’’ 

‘‘No’’ John wanted to kick himself, ‘‘Don’t apologise. Please’’ He laid on Sherlock’s side, making sure he wasn’t touching him. ‘‘I’m sorry. I went too hard’’ 

‘‘Just give me a minute?’’ Sherlock’s voice was very small. So small that John almost didn’t hear it. Muffled behind the hands that were hiding his face, ‘‘Don’t change your mind about me, please. I just need a minute’’ 

‘‘Change my mind about you? Christ, love, what are you even...’’ 

Sherlock eyed him through the crack of his fingers, ‘‘I don’t know what’s happening to me, John, I can’t... I can’t form thoughts. I feel everything at once. I don’t-’’ 

And then it dawned on John. Sherlock wasn’t just inexperienced on sex. He was inexperienced on love, too. On care and affection, on trust and kind honesty. He probably had never been kissed. 

_Fuck._

‘‘I haven’t even kissed you yet’’ John said, mostly to himself. Sherlock stopped breathing for a moment, but didn’t lower his hands. 

‘‘You still want too?’’ 

‘‘More than I’ve ever wanted anything else’’ 

‘‘But... I haven’t been good’’ 

A cold stone settled at the pit of John’s stomach. _John Watson, you fucking idiot._ ‘‘Yes, you have. You are perfect. And this isn’t a scene, anyway. We aren’t playing. This is just you and me’’ 

Sherlock finally lowered his hands, ‘‘It isn’t? You want me for more than just... that?’’ 

‘‘Yes, love’’ John frowned, looking at that beautifully hopeful face and wanting to punch himself, ‘‘I want everything. Everything that you want to give me. I want it. Whatever you want to do, we’ll do it. If you don’t want a... BDSM relationship, we don’t have to do it’’ 

Sherlock smiled, a little. He took a few deep breaths, his mind coming back online bit by perfect bit. ‘‘Okay’’, He cleared his throat, raising his chin, ‘‘If I can make requests, then, I would like you to kiss me’’ 

John smiled, bending down, making sure his lips were as soft and light as a courtship. 

Time stood still. 

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond, settling for just a small pout that would be the death of John, someday. He will be walking down the street and will remember this pout and have a heart attack, probably. Most likely. 

After a few minutes of this, Sherlock tried to mimic John’s movements, sucking on John’s bottom lip, pulling at it with his teeth, and _Christ_ but John loved him. He had to say it. ‘‘I love you’’ he whispered against those sinful lips, incapable of not kissing them for longer than it took to get the words out. 

Sherlock moaned, a sound so beautiful it could create and destroy the universe. ‘‘You do?’’ 

‘‘Yep’’, kiss, ‘‘Very much’’, kiss, ‘‘Possibly too much’’, kiss, ‘‘You could annihilate me, Sherlock Holmes’’ 

Sherlock groaned, this time, and John’s words must have given him a burst of energy, because he reversed their positions, coming to lie on top of John. Their bodies perfectly aligned. He licked John’s lips, urging his tongue forward to bite it, snogging John with inexperience but so thoroughly that John’s toes curled up in his socks. 

‘‘Clothes, John’’ Sherlock mumbled against his mouth, ‘‘Your clothes’’ 

‘‘Yes’’ John moaned, trying to wedge his hands to open his zipper without interrupting their procedure. 

Sherlock grunted, displeased, ‘‘I’ll do it’’ he said, but didn’t proceed to do it. They kissed for rather a long time after that, actually. ‘‘Jooohn’’ he eventually wined, probably upset that John’s clothes weren’t removed by sheer mental force alone. 

John couldn’t help but laugh against Sherlock’s mouth. ‘‘You get the trousers and I’ll get the shirt’’ 

Sherlock backed away slightly to nod, solemnly, as if they were discussing battlefield strategies. ‘‘Three’’ 

‘‘Two’’ 

‘‘One!’’ They yelled at the same time and scrambled to disrobe John. Which proved more difficult than anticipated, with John nearly kicking Sherlock in the chin as he frantically tried to propel a sock off. 

‘‘Yes!’’ Sherlock bellowed, staring at a naked John proudly, 

John laughed, ‘‘I have to admit: no one has ever had that reaction upon seeing me naked. It’s doing wonders for my ego’’ 

Sherlock bent down to lick John ear, ‘‘Well deserved, I would say’’ he murmured against it. 

John groaned, ‘‘Christ, what are you doing to me?’’ 

Sherlock resumed his position on top of John, wiggling his still clothed hips and sucking on John’s throat. ‘‘John’’ he sounded pained, and John moved his hands to that perfect and round and sinful little arse. Sherlock moaned, bringing his knees up either side of John’s hips to gain some leverage. 

John wanted to cry from how good it felt, ‘‘That’s it, love’’ 

Sherlock pushed against John’s chest, rising to ride him. His chest was a bright pink, his hair on disarray falling on his eyes. He looked like a rent boy, biting his lip in pleasure. 

‘‘You’re going to kill me’’ John said, and he was surprisingly resigned to that. Sherlock let out a breathy laugh that was a miracle on itself, stopping his movements to remove his pants. 

He slowed down a bit, after that, looking at both of them, naked, as if unsure what to do. John caressed his thighs with his fingertips, light as a feather, giving him time. 

Sherlock's eyes met his, a bit embarrassed, and said softly, ‘‘Lube?’’ 

Air got stuck on John’s throat. His chin jerked to the side, ‘‘The-’’ 

Sherlock got it, bending over to reach John’s night stand, still astride him, rummaging through the drawer. He took a moment to read the back of the bottle, which John found hilarious and absurd and wonderful and so Sherlock that he could cry. 

‘‘I love you’’ John whispered, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, a dainty little smile on his lips. 

He then, not so daintily, smeared some lube on his hand and stroked John with it. 

‘‘Fuck’’ John moaned, unable to look away, melting through the mattress until Sherlock raised his hips to move further up John’s body. ‘‘Baby, no. I have to-’’ 

‘‘Like this’’ Sherlock whispered, and pressed John’s prick against his crack, moving up and down. 

‘‘Jesus Christ’’ John said, a moan and a laugh. 

Sherlock moved his other hand to his own prick, arching his back and throwing his head back with a groan. I was the most erotic thing that John had ever seen in his life. 

‘‘You’re like an angel’’ John babbled, and Sherlock looked down at him, ‘‘A filthy, perfect, little sex angel’’ 

Sherlock smiled, biting his lip, moving faster, more desperate. ‘‘John’’, he sobbed. 

‘‘That’s it, love’’ John said, running his hands all over him, everywhere he could reach. ‘‘Cum for me. I want to see it’’ 

And Sherlock did, a blissful, miraculous expression on his face, the beauty of it alone enough to push John there, as well. 

Next thing John knew, there was a Sherlock-shaped blanket on top of him, breathing soundlessly against his neck. He brought his hands up to the beautiful mob of black hair tickling his nose. 

‘‘I would like to do that at least twice a day, from now on’’ Sherlock mumbled, raising his fingers to trace John’s scar. 

John’s lips twitched, ‘‘That can be arranged’’ 

His voice turned small. ‘‘You can spank me, but I don’t want you to really be upset with me. Not even in a scene’’ 

John hugged him tighter, ‘‘I don’t like being upset with you, either, love’’ John pulled his chin up, meeting Sherlock’s eyes, ‘‘How about this: if either of us does something that the other one doesn’t like, we talk about it immediately’’ 

Sherlock searched his eyes for a little while, then smiled, ‘‘Okay’’ 

‘‘And there will be no spanking of any kind’’ John said, resolutely. ‘‘I’ve had vanilla relationships before, you know. It’s not like I need it. No one needs it. Don’t trust what you ready on the internet’’ 

Sherlock hummed, and his face turned a little red, ‘‘What if I want to try it, at least once?’’ 

John raised his eyebrows, inhaling deeply, ‘‘We can try whatever you want. Just not because it’s what you think I want or need’’ 

Sherlock nodded, lying down on John’s chest again, placing a kiss to his chest and sighing contently. 

‘‘My John’’ he whispered, dripping with affection, so sweet it gave John a toothache. 

And it was good, really. All good. Perfect, in fact. 

He’d have to send Irene Adler a food basket. 

‘‘John?’’ 

‘‘Hm?’’ 

‘‘I figured out who the killer is’’ 

Sigh, ‘‘Of course you did’’

**Author's Note:**

> ______*______


End file.
